


snow days and chocolate

by shilu_ette



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Fluff, M/M, movies - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5311874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilu_ette/pseuds/shilu_ette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keigo is irritated that it's snowing. Ryoma is irritated that Keigo is taking it out on him. They end up curled up together to watch a movie. Atoryo fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	snow days and chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> Domestic fluff….I think. (More like domestic snarking and bitching with reluctant fluff. ) Keigo is an idiot in love.

 

 

There is too much snow in Tokyo this winter.

Keigo looks out the window and frowns. His eyes narrow as he chances a look at Ryoma before he quickly averts his gaze again. Ryoma is curled up in Keigo’s favorite armchair huddled in Keigo’s second bathrobe and looking very much like a contented child, reading about the new contestants for this year’s Junior Wimbledon players. He wills the snow to melt with his eyes, but such endeavors are fruitless.

 

“You’re jittery,” Ryoma says, without looking up from his magazine, “Stop it. It’s annoying.”

 

Keigo gives the boy a full-fledged glare this time and straightens his (first) robe out in a haughty gesture. “Easy for you to say,” he says, “This snow will be the death of us all.”

“Dramatics,” Ryoma says, uninterested.

“You do realize that with this much snow, our trip to Okinawa will be delayed? Or possibly even cancelled?”

“Your trip, not ours.”

“In which you’re going.”

“In which I said I was considering out of the obligation of your insistence.” Ryoma sets aside his magazine and rolls his eyes. “Or, you know, we can watch something. A snow day isn’t the end of the world.”

Keigo sneers. “A snow _week._ ”

“Whatever.” Ryoma sits up and stretches. He looks around. “You have a mansion to yourself. Entertain me.”

Keigo rolls his eyes. He can’t help but feel that his age decimates with the time spent in the younger boy’s company. “Do you need reminding that you were the one barging in the first place?”

Ryoma shrugs. “I rode the train for you,” he points out. “I almost didn’t make it, you know. Lot of snow and all, I couldn’t even move my feet.”

“I am much obliged,” Keigo says, “That you didn’t bury underneath the mountain of snow. Really Echizen, you should drink more milk, then perhaps you wouldn’t be whining to me about such trifles.”

Echizen immediately scowls at that, and Keigo almost, _almost_ feels bad about his sharp words. But the snow wasn’t about to stop anytime soon, and Keigo really hated anything so frivolous (and yes, the worst snowstorm Tokyo had seen in over a century _was_ a frivolous endeavor that he must overcome) as snow would ruin his plans.

“…I suppose we can go to the screening room,” Keigo says, after a short but chilling silence, “What did you have in mind?”

“I dunno,” Ryoma says shortly, “It’s your movie room, isn’t it?”

Keigo sighs and retrieves a couple of DVDs scattered somewhere in his drawer he had planned to see for a rainy day. They make it from his room to the screening room silently, Ryoma’s face still in a sulk as Keigo discreetly signals Michael to make them hot drinks. Ryoma crosses his arms and plops in one of the comfy sofas that lined the ten rows for screening, tucking his feet at the seat of the chair. The room is faintly lit, and Keigo holds up the flaps of the DVD covers for the younger boy to see.

“Choices?” he inquires politely. There were the movies that Keigo liked (Historical, politics, biographical grandness, war, sometimes romantic classics, mostly from BBC adaptations) and then there were the movies that Ryoma preferred (action, action, a lot of the Hollywood kitsch that Keigo never really bothered with, sometimes SF and sometimes thrillers and all the James Bond espionage jazz, also in Keigo’s mind, kitsch). Between such polarizing tastes, they barely found a compromise, which made for very poor movie dates. It spoke volumes that Keigo was willing to offer concession when most of the time they settled the choice (and most other things besides) with a match.

Ryoma eyes him, just as Michael came into the room with a plate of hot chocolate and a dish of holiday cookies.

“Here you are, young masters,” Michael says smoothly, and Ryoma eyes that too. Keigo is ever thankful that he has such an able and prompt butler.

“Does it kill you to say that you can be a little snotty sometimes and offer me an apology?” Ryoma says dryly, once Michael bows and leaves them in peace. He looks less irate now, his legs automatically uncurling from the seat of the chair and examining a cookie. He takes a bite.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Keigo says resolutely. “Pick one quickly, before I change my mind and watch _Gone with the Wind_.”

“Urgh. No.” Ryoma makes a face and scans the covers held in Keigo’s patient hand. He gestures to one of the flaps carelessly with one hand with the cookie. “Lord of the Rings, then.”

That Keigo can work with. It’s grand enough, some intrigue, some visual effects that are admittedly impressive. He goes to turn on the projector.

By the time the movie is about to screen, Ryoma had already devoured half the cookies and Keigo’s arm is already held hostage as a pillow for the younger boy’s head.

“Do I have to do this for the remaining three hours?” Keigo asks. It was nice that Ryoma was content enough to lean against his shoulders and make Keigo curl an arm around him, but they had done this for another movie once, and Keigo had been left with a sore and numbing pain for the rest of the week.

Ryoma doesn't even give him a look; he is already engrossed at the screen. “You can pull away if it bothers you later,” he says distractedly. His hand reaches out for the plate of cookies, and when he finds that it’s the last one, he hands it to Keigo, vaguely in the direction of Keigo’s mouth. “Here. You can have the last one.”

“How positively generous of you,” Keigo mutters. He takes the waving cookie and takes a bite, one hand on the cookie and one hand resting on Ryoma’s shoulders. The cookies are warm and too sweet for Keigo’s tastes. Ryoma’s shoulders are too bony, he thinks. He should plan for their dinner.

Ryoma pokes him. “Stop thinking about something else, monkey king,” he says, “Watch the movie.”

“It’s a re-run,” Keigo says automatically, leaning back against the sofa more comfortably. Ryoma goes along with him.

“Still, it’s good.” Ryoma pokes him again. “Dunno why you’re so hung up about Okinawa, though. We can go next year.”

“Next year,” Keigo says, eyes on the screen and suddenly feeling peevish, “You will be leading yet another fruitless battle in the Nationals while I will be slaving away at college. Or have you forgotten?”

“Haven’t,” Ryoma says, “But we could go sometime in the summer.”

Keigo frowns. He turns towards Ryoma. Ryoma is still watching the movie. “We?” he repeats, “So you’ll be going, then?”

“As if you’ll let me _not_ go,” Ryoma says snidely, and Keigo feels irritated and cross all over again. “Not as if I have a choice, you know.”

Keigo thinks about pulling his arm from Echizen’s nestling head and smacking the brat’s head. “Of course there’s a choice,” he says, his petulance bleeding into his words, “You don’t have to go. As if you’ll do anything you don’t want to do, god forbid.”

“Exactly.” At this Ryoma finally looks at Keigo sideways, a smirk playing on his lips as if they’re sharing a secret joke. Keigo is begging to see what that joke is. “So I said I’ll go, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t quite say it in that exact manner, no.”

Ryoma sighs. It is the sigh of an underclassman that has had too many seniors who bothered him with their hugs and nagging and he had to cater to their incessant whims. Keigo wants to feel very offended. “Yes,” he says slowly, “I want to go. It’s where you have all your tennis courts anyways.”

“So you’re going for tennis,” Keigo states.

“I can’t believe you think you’re so suave,” Ryoma grumbles. His hand reaches out to poke Keigo again. “No, I’m going because I’m going with you and other idiotic senpais. Can we watch the movie now?”

“I….yes, fine.” Keigo settles back again. He didn’t think that was the answer he actually wanted to hear, but the irritation that had been weighing on him had lifted. He even felt a little giddy. He focuses on the screen before he speaks again.

“And of _course_ I’m suave, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Keigo,” Ryoma warns him, voice monotone and deceptively devoid of any threats, “Shut up and watch the movie.”

Keigo shuts up and his arm ends up curled against Ryoma for the next three hours.

 

 

 

 


End file.
